Such Is Life (9 page)

“Beg parding,” interposed Cooper apologetically—“I was goin' to say to Collins, before I forgit, that he can easy git over bein' a Port Philliper. Friend o' mine, out on the Macquarie, name o' Mick Shanahan, he's one too; an' when anybody calls him a Port Philliper, or a Vic., or a 'Sucker, he comes out straight: ‘you're a (adj.) liar,' says he; ‘I'm a Cornstalk, born in New South Wales.' An' he proves it too. Born before the Separation, in the District of Port Phillip, Colony of New South Wales. That's his argyment, an' there's no gittin' over it. Good idear, ain't it?”

“It is a good idea,” I replied. “I'm glad you laid me on to it. But, Willoughby, I can't help thinking you must feel the change very acutely.”

“I do. But what is the use of grumbling?
Ver non semper viret
. No doubt you are surprised to see me in my present position. It is owing, in the first place, to a curious combination of circumstances, and in the second place, to some of my own little pranks. I am nephew to Sir Robert Brook, baronet, the present representative of the Brooks of Brookcotes, Dorsetshire—a family, sir, dating from the fourteenth century. Possibly you have heard the name?”

“Often.”

“Not the Brookes of the King's Elms, Hants, pray observe. The Brookes of the King's Elms gained their enormous wealth as army contractors, during the struggle with Napoleon, and their baronetcy, Heaven knows how! The baronetcy of the Brooks of Brookcotes dates from 1615, at which time my maternal ancestor, Sir Roger Brook, knight, procured his patent by supplying thirty infantry for three years in the subjugation of Ireland. Independently of the title, our family is many centuries older than the other. We spell our name without”—

“My (adj.) fambly come all the way down from the Hark,” observed Mosey, with a rudeness which reflected little credit on his ancient lineage.

—“without the final ‘e.' There is a manifest breach of trust in creation of these new baronetcies. It was more than implied—it was distinctly stipulated—at the origination of the Order, by James I, that the number of baronets should not exceed two hundred, and that there should be no new creations to supply the place of such titles as might lapse through extinction of families.”

“And is there no remedy for this?” I asked.

“None whatever. Not that I am personally interested in the
exclusiveness of the Order, my connection with the Brooks of Brookcotes being on the distaff side. My mother was Sir Robert's only sister. My father was a military man—3rd Buffs—died when I was twelve or thirteen years of age. Sir Robert was a confirmed bachelor, and I was his only nephew. Now you see my position?”

“I think I do.”

“Four years ago, demme if Sir Robert didn't marry a manufacturer's daughter—soap manufacturer—and within two years there was a lineal heir to Brookcotes!”

“You don't say so?”

“Fact, begad! Shortly afterward, I was detected—ha-ha!
Sua cuique voluptas
—in a
liaison
with a young person who resided with my uncle's wife as a companion. Whereupon my lady used her influence with the demd old dotard, and I was cut off with a shilling. However, he gave me a saloon passage to Melbourne, with an order on his agent in that city for £500. My lady's father also gave me letters of introduction to some friends in Sydney-business people. Fact was, they wanted to get rid of me.”

“The £500 should have given you a fair start,” I suggested.

“Pardon me—it is impossible for you to enter into the feelings of a man who has been brought up as presumptive heir to a rent-roll of £12,000. You cannot imagine how the mind of a gentleman shrinks from the petty details, the meanness, the vulgarities of trade. You are aware, I presume, that all avenues of ambition except the Church, the Army, and the Legislature, are closed to our class? You cannot imagine—pardon my repeating it—the exclusiveness, the fine sense of honour”—

“Holy sailor!” I heard Thompson whisper to himself.

—“which pervades the mind and controls the actions of a gentleman. As a casual illustration of what is amusingly, though somewhat provokingly, ignored here, you have, no doubt, observed that our gentlemen cricketers will acknowledge no fellowship with professionals, though they may belong to the same team, and be paid from the same funds. However, to proceed with a story which is, perhaps, not without interest. I left Melbourne before my pittance was exhausted, and presented my credentials in Sydney. Mr. Wilcox, a relation of my lady's father, and a person of some local importance, treated me at first with consideration—in fact, there was always a knife and fork for me at his table—but I noticed, as time went on, a growing coolness on his part. I ought to mention that his sister, Mrs. Bradshaw—a widow, fat, fair, and forty—had considerable capital invested in his business; and I was paying
my addresses to her, deeming my birth and education a sufficient counterpoise to her wealth. I'd have married her too, begad I would! At this time, Wilcox was establishing gelatine works; and he had the demd enron”—

“What's gelatine?” demanded Mosey. “I've of'en heard o' the (adj.) stuff. What the (sheol) is it used in?”

“In commerce, principally, Mosey,” I replied.

“Neat, begad! As I was saying, Wilcox had the demd assurance to offer me a clerkship in his new establishment. We had a few words in consequence; and shortly afterward I left Sydney, and found my way here. Have you any acquaintance in Sydney—may I ask?”

[A word of explanation. Being only an official of the ninth class, I received my appointment in Hay. On that occasion, I asked the magistrate who received my securities and otherwise attended to the matter—I naturally asked him what chance I had for promotion. He told me that it would go strictly by seniority, but, as my immediate superior, the Assistant-Sub-Inspector, was not eligible for any higher grade—never having passed any examination whatever—and as I could not be advanced over his head, my only chance was to step into his place when he vacated it. Now, I knew he was not likely to resign, for he had a good salary all to himself, and nothing to do but refer me to the Central Office for orders. I knew in fact, that there was only one way in which he was likely to quit his niche in the edifice of the State. So I replied to Willoughby's question.]

“Well, I may say I have; and yet I'm not aware of anyone in Sydney that I would know by sight. My superior officer lives there. Remotely possible you may know him—Rudolph Winterbottom, esquire.”

“Rudolph Winterbottom—did you say? Yes, by Jove! rather a happy coincidence. I remember him well. I was introduced to him on a reception day at Government House, and met him frequently afterward; dined in his company, I think, on two occasions.”

“Is he a very old man?”

“No; the old gentleman is his father—Thomas Winterbottom—hale, sturdy old boy, overflowing with vitality—came out, he told me, in the time of Sir Richard Bourke. But I scarcely think Mr. Rudolph Winterbottom holds any Government situation. His private fortune is fully sufficient for all demands of even good society. Ah! now I have it! His son Rudy—his third or fourth son—holds some appointment. That will be your man.”

“Very likely. An invalid—is he not? Something wrong with his lungs?”

“So I should imagine, now that you mention it. He was away on an excursion to the mountains when his father spoke of him to me.”

“Git to sleep, chaps, for Gossake,” murmured Cooper. “Guarantee there'll be none o' this liveliness in the mornin', when you got to turn out.”

Thus sensibly admonished, we committed ourselves to what Macbeth calls ‘sore labour's bath'—the only kind of bath we were likely to have for some time.

Among the thousand natural ills, there are two to which I never have been, and probably never shall be, subject—namely, gout and insomnia. My immunity from the former might be difficult to account for, but my exemption from the latter may, I think, be attributed to the operation of a mind at peace with all below. Nevertheless, it used to be my habit to wake punctually at 2 a.m., for the purpose of remembering whether I had to listen for bells or not, and determining how long I could afford to sleep. So, at that exact hour, I opened my eyes to see the calm, splendid stars above, whilst merciful darkness half-veiled the sordid accessories of daily life below. Yet I noticed that the hammock under the rear of Dixon's wagon was empty. All the other fellows were sleeping, except Bum, who seemed to have disappeared altogether. The two were probably up to something. No business of mine. And I dropped to sleep again.

I had set myself to wake at full daylight. Just as I woke, I heard the distant patter of a galloping horse. Such a sound at such a time is ominous to duffing bullock drivers; so, as I sprang to my feet, you may be sure my companions were not much behind me. Along the track, a mile in advance of the wagons, we saw an approaching horseman. And as if this wasn't enough, we heard the sound of an axe in the selection.

“Holy glory! there's somebody livin' in the hut, after all!” ejaculated Mosey.

The house stood on a very slight rise, where the clump of swamp box terminated, a quarter of a mile away; and, sure enough, we could see, through a gap in the undergrowth of old-man salt-bush, a man chopping wood at the edge of the clump. But he seemed quite unconscious of the multitude of bullocks that, scattered all over the paddock, were laying in a fresh supply of grass.

“It's Moriarty,” sighed Thompson, gazing at the horseman. “He's been sent to catch us. It's all up.”

Then, like the sound of many waters, rose the mingled sentiments of the company, as each man dragged on his boots with a celerity beyond description.

“You keep him on a string, Collins, while we coller as many of the carrion as we”—

“What use? It's a summonsing match already. Look at the fence! And Martin lives in the hut, after all. He's between us and the bullocks now—laughing at us. What business had we to travel on”—

“Demmit, suggest something. Make use of me in this emergency, I beg of you. Shall I”—

“Port Phillip, all over. Jist let me deliver this (adj.) load. That's all I”—

“Comes o' young pups knowhr heverythink. I kep' misdoubtin'all the (adj.) time”—

“Are you fellows mad?” shouted the young storekeeper, as he dashed past the group, and pulled his blown horse round in a circle. “Out with those bullocks as quick as the devil'll let you! Martin's on top of you! I've just given him the slip! We were sent from the station expressly to nip you. Fly round! blast you, fly round!”

At the word, Cooper and Thompson snatched up their bridles and darted off, followed by Price and Willoughby. Dixon and Bum were not in the crowd, but no one had leisure just then to notice their absence.

“Len's yer horse, like a good feller,” said Mosey hastily.

“To (sheol) with your cheek!” snapped Moriarty. “What next, I wonder?” Mosey snatched up his bridle, and went off at a run. “Hello, Collins! I didn't notice you in the hurry. Bright cards, ain't they? Nothing short of seven years'll satisfy them. You've been travelling all night?”

“No; I camped here with the teams.”

“I thought, when I saw the saddled horse, that you had just turned him in to get a bite.”

“He's not saddled. There's my saddle.”

“I thought that was your horse—that black one with the new saddle on.” (I should explain that Moriarty, being mounted, could see across the old-man salt-bush, which I could not.) “But, I say,” he continued; “what do you mean by stopping here instead of making for the station? I've a dash good mind to tell Mrs. Beaudesart. Why, it's two months since you parted from her.”

“Where's Martin?” I asked.

“I left him at the ram-paddock, trying to track his horse. I suppose you haven't heard that he lives here now?”

“Well, we heard that some one was being sent to live here. By the way, Moriarty, you better keep out of sight of that fellow at the hut.”

“No odds. It's only Daddy Montague; he can't see twenty yards.But I say—Mrs. Beaudesart is sorting out her own old wedding-toggery; she knows you'll never have money enough to”—

“How does Martin come to be at the ram-paddock, if he lives here?” I interrupted.

“I'll tell you the whole rigmarole,” replied the genial ass. “Martin was at the station yesterday, crawling after Miss King, when up comes a sandy-whiskered hound of a contractor, name of M'Nab, to see about the specifications of the new fence between us and Nalrooka; and this (fellow)'s idea of getting on the soft side of Montgomery, about the fence, was to nearly break his neck running to tell him that Price, and Thompson, and a whole swag of other fellows, intended to work on the ram-paddock that night. That would be last night, of course. Now, Montgomery doesn't bark about a night's grass out of the ram-paddock at this time of year, in case of emergency; but he doesn't believe in people driving expressly for it; and besides, he badly wants to catch Price and Thompson, and make an example of them. Well, it happened that he had thought out early jobs for all the rest of the fellows, so what does he do—Sunday and all—but he rouses out Martin and me, and tells us to go to the ram-paddock, and quietly round up all the bullocks, and bring them to the station. No hurry, of course, so I got playing cards with some of the shearers, and Martin got yarning with the old wool-classer; and we timed ourselves to be at the ram-paddock just before daylight. Of course, the right plan would have been to go through the ration-paddock, and in by the Quondong gate; and that was what I wanted to do. Then we could have made a circuit of the ram-paddock, inside the fence, and given it a good rough overhaul. But because I proposed this, Martin insisted on going by the main road, for better riding, and to see if we could find the wagons, as a sort of guide. Sensible to the last. Well, he would have it his own way, and I didn't give a curse, so on we went; and just as we were crossing the sort of hollow at this near corner of the ram-paddock, the God-forsaken old fool thought he heard cattle in the timber. So we tied our horses at the fence, and walked across to see. Nothing there, of course, only imagination
and kangaroo. We stayed about ten minutes—me moralising about fools, and him sulking—and when we came back to where we had left our horses, mine was there by himself. Martin was dancing mad, for his horse was never known to break a bridle, and he didn't know who to blame for making away with him. However, I wasn't any way interested in mustering the ram-paddock, and Martin wanted his horse, so we hunted round and round, but devil a smell of horse or saddle or bridle could we find in the dark. After a while, daylight came, and I caught sight of the wool, and tumbled to the little game. Of course, I ripped across to give the fellows the office, praying and cursing fit to break my neck. What the dickens induced them to run the risk of duffing here? Maddest thing I ever knew. Martin has been living here since this day week; and his greatest pleasure in life is prowling round when he ought to be asleep.”